hangover
by fall from stars
Summary: ONESHOT—He’s learned a lot of things, but somewhere along the way, he’s also learned how to let things go. [Reno] For Arya. Merry Christmas, darling.


**A/N:** So yeah, I promise that once all these Christmas presents are all over, I'll stop fandom jumping. But I'm actually really excited to see this one finished. I've always wanted to write Reno, because he's a fun character who really gets overlooked in favor of the more main characters. This is the first time I've written him, and I tried to capture some of him, but any constructive criticism you've got would help me. And this is for Arya for Christmas, because nobody can love Reno the way she does. Hope you like this, darling.

**Hangover**

Reno can't remember the last time he had a hangover. Alcohol just doesn't affect him the way it used to, and now he's such an admirer_—_a _connoisseur_, if you will_—_of beers and vodkas and gins that he drinks them for taste alone.

And while the rest of the world holds its head and vomits in the gutters the next morning, he's fine as anything, bold as you please and fiery to the touch.

It makes him look really good, though he never thought that was possible, _and_ it's given him about three filled pages in a little black book he claims not to use. He does, but only on the really bad days, and those come around less than you think. Because any day can turn into a good day if you have some liquor with you.

---

Once upon a time Reno was a lightweight, and now that you know his darkest secret, he's going to have to kill you.

---

He lives just fine on his own in his world of shaken drinks and bar fights, of wise old bartenders and girls who are not so pretty anymore in harsh sunlight and hung eyes. He's the king of the slum lifestyle until Shinra suits come sweeping through the slums. People he knows are all dolled up in corporate suits now, working for Shinra, searching out more people to recruit as Turks.

The job requirements are easy: _if you ever die, make sure you won't be missed_. There was also something about shooting a gun and piloting a helicopter too, but Reno needs money for the booze and money for the cigarettes and money for the goddamn landlady who has a personal vendetta against him. So with a very why-the-fuck-not? attitude, he fills out the application and expects never to hear from those suited-up schmucks ever again.

So he's surprised when they take him. It's a drawback along with a gain, a message reinforced in his head: _if you die, you won't be missed_. He knows the landlady would miss his money, but she can die in a horrible accident for all he cares. And he _doesn't_ care about her because he _doesn't_ love her. He only loves the booze and the cigarettes and the apartment. But as much as he loves and needs them, they don't buy themselves.

He wears the whole shebang, even the tie, on the first day, just to show the Turks he can be one of them too. He can be one of the suits too, identical and uniformed, like everyone else. But then the next day the tie gets "lost" mysteriously, and it never shows up again. If anyone minds, they certainly don't tell him.

Everyone at Shinra, and everyone out in Gaia, figures out very quickly who Reno is. He's like an unlit bomb that's just too close to a match. Say something wrong, stand up for the wrong people, or try to kick him down. Just try. And then suddenly, he's in your face, all smiles and electricity, counting down to your death.

---

He learns very quickly that working for Shinra, Inc. is nothing short of Very Serious Business, so he puts his life of gin and sin on hold when he's on the job, in the suit. But the _instant_ he clocks out, it's party time again, and he's always been good at finding the best parties.

---

He's always been very proud of himself, too. He learned as a slum kid that being proud is one thing, and that being proud with a reason is another. He thinks being invincible is cool, and so he knows he's cool. And he's seen his share of street punks trying to act cool, grasping for it, when they don't even know what it is.

One day some kid comes up to him, all wired eyes and up-front attitude, asking Reno why he won't fight him. Reno says it's not cool and so the kid asks what's cool.

Reno leaves his stun stick at work every day—_boss' orders—_and so he can't whip it out, shock the kid with it and say, "That's cool, ain't it?" He'd love nothing more than that, but he's in an alley on his way home, he's got nothing on him, and so he's got to improvise. He sees a trash can, kicks the lid off it, hears it falling down, making a satisfying ring all throughout the alley. All it really needs is some trash band bass backing it up, but Reno just smirks and says, "_That's _cool, kid."

The kid mimics him, the second can clattering on the street next to the first. "That's cool?" he asks.

"No," Reno corrects, "that's conformity."

---

"I don't care whose fault it was; it stays in the White Room from now on," the President says, and since there's no room for argument, Reno grumbles a forced "yes sir" and he conforms. He does the impossible and he leaves his stun stick, his weapon, his _baby_, behind.

He decides to drink it off, but then he remembers that he can't take that way out anymore. Because what's the use of drinking your sorrows away if you can't even feel them leaving?

So he goes home to his crappy apartment and he eats crappy pizza and he watches crappy TV all night instead, with a crappy little pout on his face.

It's cheap and crappy therapy, but somehow it works. Because the next day he grips his weapon a little tighter, and his smile goes a little wider, and the bombs behind him glow a little brighter.

---

He's learned a lot of things since the day Shinra decided to take him. He's learned to take tips with humility and accept compliments when they're due. He's learned what the ladies like and what they hate.

He's learned six different ways to make a prairie oyster, along with a lot of other tricks to banish hangovers away. He's learned how to be just as good as any bartender at mixing drinks, and how to drink those bartenders under the table, too.

He's learned how to say "shit," "you bastard," "damn" and "hell" in eleven languages, and he can say "fuck" in at least fourteen. He's learned how to take the easy way out, sliding through life, trying not to get burnt.

He's learned a lot of things, but somewhere along the way, he's also learned to never be hung over, and how to let things go.

---


End file.
